Morning light spilled gently over Astley Castle, washing its pale stone walls in a soft gold hue. The air was still cool, carrying the faint scent of dew and distant sea salt drifting in from the port.
Inside the castle, the side hall—normally quiet and used only for auxiliary gatherings—had been opened wide. Tall arched windows lined one side, their curtains drawn back to let sunlight pour in, illuminating the polished stone floor until it gleamed like calm water.
They had all gathered there.
Dozens of men and women stood in orderly rows, backs straight, hands neatly placed at their sides. For many of them, this was the first time in their lives they were standing inside a noble's castle—not as laborers, not as petitioners, but as staff entrusted with something important.
What stood out immediately was their appearance.
Every single one of them wore a brand-new uniform, pristine and unblemished, as if they had just stepped out of a tailor's atelier.
The chefs were grouped together on one side of the hall.
Their attire followed a traditional European style, refined yet practical. Each chef wore a clean white double-breasted jacket, the thick fabric pressed sharply, with rows of polished buttons running diagonally across the chest. The collars stood firm, framing their necks neatly without restricting movement. Long sleeves were fitted but not tight, designed to be rolled up during intense kitchen work.
Around their waists were dark, charcoal-colored aprons made of sturdy cloth, reaching just below the knees. The aprons were reinforced at the seams, clearly meant to endure heat, spills, and long hours of labor. Beneath them, straight black trousers fell cleanly to their ankles, paired with leather shoes that were simple, durable, and slip-resistant.
Most of them wore tall white chef hats—some stiff and proud, others still slightly awkward as their owners adjusted to the unfamiliar weight. The hats varied subtly in height, quietly reflecting rank and experience, though none dared to stand too tall just yet.
The overall impression was one of discipline and professionalism. Even those who had once cooked over open fires in roadside kitchens now looked like true culinary craftsmen.
On the opposite side stood the waiters.
Their uniforms carried a distinctly English style, dignified and composed. Each waiter wore a crisp white shirt beneath a fitted black vest, the fabric hugging their frame just enough to appear elegant without being restrictive. A neatly tied bowtie rested at their collars, small but unmistakably formal.
Their trousers were pressed to perfection, sharp creases running straight down the legs, and their shoes shone faintly under the sunlight—evidence of careful polishing done early that morning. Long black coats were folded over their arms for now, reserved for actual service, but even without them, their appearance radiated restraint and courtesy.
Their posture was noticeably rigid. Shoulders back, chins lifted slightly, eyes forward. Many of them had practiced this stance repeatedly over the past days, determined not to disgrace themselves in front of nobles and foreign guests alike.
And then there were the waitresses.
At first glance, their uniforms were the most eye-catching.
Designed in an anime-inspired style, the outfits were rich with frills, ribbons, and layered fabric, yet none of it felt excessive or ornamental for ornament's sake. The dresses were tailored to stop just above the knee, allowing free movement of the legs. The skirts were structured with soft pleats rather than heavy layers, ensuring they would not tangle or restrict motion while walking briskly through a crowded dining hall.
Each dress featured a fitted bodice with elegant lace trimming along the neckline and sleeves. The sleeves themselves were short and puffed slightly, decorative yet light, allowing the arms full freedom to carry trays and plates. A wide ribbon was tied neatly at the back, accentuating the waist without pulling too tightly.
Beneath the skirts, they wore sturdy stockings and low-heeled shoes designed specifically for long hours of standing and walking. The shoes were reinforced at the sole, silent against the stone floor, with just enough grip to prevent slipping.
Frilled headpieces rested atop their hair—carefully secured so they would not shift no matter how fast they moved. Despite the elaborate appearance, every detail had been designed with mobility in mind. Nothing dragged, nothing snagged, nothing weighed them down.
It was beauty refined by purpose.
As they stood there together—chefs, waiters, and waitresses alike—the side hall felt different from its usual solemn quiet. There was tension, yes, but also excitement. Pride. A shared understanding that this morning marked the true beginning of something new.
This was training.And from this day forward, they would be shaped into professionals worthy of the name Astley.
The murmurs died the moment the doors at the far end of the side hall opened.
Footsteps echoed—measured, unhurried, and heavy enough to command attention without force. A man stepped forward, his presence alone enough to draw every gaze toward him. He wore a formal instructor's coat, dark and plain, without unnecessary ornamentation. It was the kind of attire that spoke not of status, but of authority earned through experience.
He stopped several paces in front of the gathered staff.
"Good morning."
His voice was calm, firm, and carried effortlessly through the spacious hall. No warmth, no coldness—just clarity.
Straight backs stiffened even further. Some of the younger recruits swallowed nervously. A few adjusted their footing, instinctively aligning themselves better.
"I will not waste your time with small talk."
That alone sent a quiet ripple through the group.
This was not going to be gentle.
"Let me explain the training schedule."
He clasped his hands behind his back and turned slightly, his gaze sweeping across the chefs first.
"For the chefs, the focus will be basic recipe training."
A faint exhale escaped several of them—relief, barely concealed.
"You will learn standardized preparation methods, consistency in taste, portion control, hygiene, and efficiency. Personal flair is irrelevant at this stage. Until your fundamentals are flawless, creativity is meaningless."
That relief evaporated just as quickly.
Some chefs felt their pride prickle. Others nodded unconsciously, recognizing the truth in his words. A few tightened their fists at their sides, already imagining the long hours ahead, hands aching from repetition.
Then his attention shifted.
The waiters and waitresses felt it immediately.
"But for those assigned to service," he continued, "your training will be… considerably broader."
A subtle stir passed through their ranks.
"First—etiquette."
He did not elaborate at first, allowing the word to settle.
"You will be serving nobles, foreign dignitaries, merchants of influence, and guests from nations beyond this continent. One careless gesture, one poorly chosen word, or one improper posture can insult an entire household—or worse, an entire country."
A few faces paled.
Memories surfaced unbidden: rough hands, slouched shoulders, habits born from years of labor and survival. Some glanced down at their own fingers, suddenly hyper-aware of every movement.
"Etiquette," he continued, "is not decoration. It is a language of respect. Learn it, and doors open. Fail, and you embarrass not only yourself, but House Astley."
Silence followed—thick and heavy.
"Next—language training."
That finally drew audible reactions.
Soft gasps. Muted whispers. Eyes widening in disbelief.
"You will learn the language of the Magus Empire, Elvish, and the Beastmen tongue. Speaking and writing."
The murmurs swelled despite their efforts to suppress them.
Three languages?
Writing too?
Some felt their stomachs drop.
They had expected hard work—but this? This was the education of scholars, not servants.
"The reason should be obvious," the examiner said evenly, cutting through the noise. "This restaurant is not meant for locals alone. Foreign guests will come. When they do, they will be greeted in their own tongue. Comfort breeds trust. Trust breeds loyalty."
A waiter near the back clenched his jaw.
I've never even spoken to an elf…
A waitress swallowed, heart pounding.
Beastmen writing… I can barely write my own name properly…
"And for those among you who cannot read or write at all," the examiner added, voice unwavering, "you will undergo basic education first. Reading. Writing. Arithmetic."
A collective breath seemed to be held.
"Only after completing that will you proceed to language and etiquette training."
The implication landed heavily.
"So it should be obvious," he finished, "that you will be staying extra hours."
No one complained.
No one dared.
Some stared straight ahead, faces tight with anxiety. Others lowered their eyes, shame flickering behind disciplined expressions. A few felt fear coil in their chests—but beneath it, something else stirred as well.
Hope.
Education.
A chance they had never been offered before.
This was not merely training for a job.
This was an opportunity to become more than they had ever been allowed to imagine.
The examiner let the silence linger just long enough for that realization to sink in.
"Those who endure," he said finally, "will stand among the finest staff on the continent."
And in that quiet side hall of Astley Castle, amid pristine uniforms and unsteady hearts, the true weight of their path forward finally became clear.
The examiner took a final look across the hall, his sharp gaze lingering on the faces before him—faces filled with fear, resolve, doubt, and fragile hope.
"This concludes the briefing," he said. "Training begins immediately."
There was no ceremonial dismissal. No encouragement softened with kindness. Only the quiet expectation that they would rise to what was demanded of them.
As he turned and walked away, his footsteps faded into the stone corridors of the castle, leaving behind a hall heavy with unspoken thoughts.
For a brief moment, no one moved.
Then, slowly, breaths were released.
Hands that had been clenched loosened. Shoulders dropped ever so slightly. Soft whispers emerged—questions without words, reassurances offered through brief glances. Some exchanged nervous smiles. Others swallowed hard and straightened once more, as if reminding themselves not to falter now.
For many, the road ahead felt impossibly steep.
Long hours. Exhausting repetition. Words and letters they had never known. Manners and customs that felt foreign to their very bones.
And yet…
They were still standing there.
Wearing clean uniforms. Inside a noble's castle. Being taught—not used, not discarded, but trained.
That alone was something worth enduring hardship for.
Morning sunlight continued to stream through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the side hall. In those shadows stood people who had once lived day to day, uncertain of tomorrow.
Now, they had a direction.
With quiet determination settling into their hearts, they began to move—toward kitchens that smelled of promise, classrooms filled with chalk and ink, and a future that, for the first time, felt within reach.
And thus, under the watchful walls of Astley Castle, the training began.